


A Curse Meant to Be Broken

by aenwoedbeannaa



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aenwoedbeannaa/pseuds/aenwoedbeannaa
Summary: You once lived a happy life–before the Nilfguaardians shattered it. Now, you are forced to serve the Nilfguaardian noble who was given reign of your town and the surrounding villages. And now, he has hired a Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, to come and banish the Noonwraith who has been haunting the town for years–the Noonwraith tied to your old home, the silver locket you wear around your neck, and the blood in your veins.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 277





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Violence, Eventual Smut
> 
> Word Count: 3,989

“How long has this wraith been terrorizing the village?” 

You stood in the back of the crowd, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. The powers that be had finally decided to take action against the wraith that had been plaguing the town for years. 

You were not so naive as to think it had nothing to do with the fact that the wraith, once inexorably tied to the poorer part of the village, was now making rounds outside the invisible boundary. There was an attack on one of the village nobles a week ago, and a contract was put out on the mysterious woman a day later. 

Word must have traveled fast, because only a few days later, Geralt of Rivia rode into town on horseback. He was just as the legends described him. Tall, broad-shouldered—pure muscle, and eyes like a cat’s. 

He looked like exactly the type of person who would be able to rid the town of the banish the Noonwraith for good. 

It was difficult to hear your master speak over the excited buzzing of the crowd, but you could not risk getting any closer. You were supposed to be making daily deliveries, not idling around in the town square, watching the spectacle. However, considering it appeared that most of the village was crowded around the world-famous Witcher and your master as they spoke, you doubted anyone would be home to receive the letters you were tasked with delivering, anyway. 

“Three years,” Stephic said, his thick Nilfguaardian accent tinged with not even the slighted ounce of regret. “The abomination used to keep to an old abandoned home and thereabout, but now the wench is traveling freely around the town.”

Your hand goes automatically to the silver locket around your neck, biting back tears. It was all you had left of her-the last thing you had left of your brave, selfless mother that had been reduced to an abomination. 

The part he left out, of course, was that the old abandoned hut he was referring to used to be your family’s home. It had never been a grand place, but it had been home. The Nilfguaardians, however, had no problem ripping it away. 

“For three years, there has been a noon-wraith terrorizing the people of your village, and there was no contract on it until this week?” The Witcher’s voice was deep and captivating. You found yourself pressing ever so slightly forward in the crowd to hear.

“Well,” Master Stephic muttered, “It hasn’t been attacking anyone, so long as no one got too close. And we are no great export city, Sir.” 

Bullshit. That man had enough gold to fill one of the warehouses that sprang up a half-mile down the road shortly after Nilfguaard arrived, and more pouring in because of it every day. It may not be the largest warehouse in Temeria, but the labor was free. 

He couldn’t spare the three hundred crowns because he couldn’t stand to part with money. Now that a true Nilfguaardian had been attacked, he had to shell out the coin so he didn’t end up ousted by his ‘friends.’ 

“The tannery on the outskirts of the village isn’t bringing in enough cash?” the Witcher asked, feline eyes narrowed. You could hear the rest of the sentence implied by that scowl, even if he didn’t say it aloud. ‘It is not as if labor costs are high.’

An uncomfortable silence settled on the crowd, before the Witcher finally broke it. “But I’m a Witcher, and politics is not my place,” he finally adds. “Where can I find this wraith?” 

You suck in a breath, knowing exactly where he could find the wraith, and what he would need to get rid of it. But naturally, you were forbidden to speak to him—you were forbidden to even be here. Growing immediately aware of that fact, you stepped to the side, using another member of the crowd to hide yourself. 

“The shack down the road, to the west,” Stephic muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the road branching off from the town toward the forest that bordered its western side. The land was already bathed in the golden sunlight of evening. 

You release the breath you did not even realize you were holding, realizing that the Witcher would not be able to do much about it until the next day. A Noonwraith would not emerge in the evening, much less night. 

You know that you should not attach yourself to what is left of your mother. Nothing would bring her back—not to the way she was. And even now, when you approached your old home, the wraith would chase you just like she would chase any of the other villagers. You could feel it–the necklace–how it seemed to call to her. 

_To it_ , you must remind yourself. _She is not Mother anymore_. 

You turn away from the crowd, feeling deflated. You should be happy that the Witcher was here to lift the curse that had trapped your mother in this god-forsaken village, and yet all you feel is empty. 

Perhaps, it was the knowledge that come tomorrow, your mother would be free, and you would still be stuck here in the same old village—so very alone.

***

After the spectacle of the early evening, finishing the rest of your tasks for the day drags even more than usual. Usually, having something for your mind to wander off to makes the day go by faster. This time, however, the swirling thoughts in your head only seem to be making the day move slower—the thoughts gumming up your mind and making it hard to focus.

You weave your way through side streets, your usual route home. Alleys and side streets are better for picking up the bits of conversations that people would never have on the main roads. Being a servant, people are even less likely to check their tongues around you. Perhaps, they do not even see you there—or perhaps they think you to daft to do much with any information that you do glean. 

Today, all of the conversations have been, predictably, about the same thing—Geralt of Rivia and the horrible Noonwraith he will surely banish to the depths of hell. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. You hope that the cursed, mangled soul of your mother will be sent no such place. It is not her fault that she became what she did. How quickly the Nilfguaardians could take over a once free town without so much as a thought for the people they are disrupting—for the lives they are destroying. 

_“He is as handsome as they say!”_ There are a group of women giggling conspiratorially on the corner. 

_“Do you think he will be staying at the inn? I’d like to go say hello.”_ More giggles. 

_“Oh, like he’d give a rats ass about a girl from a middle of nowhere town!”_

Well, there always has to be someone to ruin the fun. In this case, one of the men you’d seen tailing this particular group of women over the last weeks. He was, you had gathered, the would-be boyfriend of one of them, were any of them to give him the time of day. They didn’t, of course, given that he was a blacksmith’s apprentice, and they were merchants’ daughters, and thus far above him on the socioeconomic scale. 

You keep all of these snippets of others’ lives to yourself—holding them dear, as if they were the story of your own life. Your life’s story seems to be already written—and written poorly. You’d much rather focus on the the lives of others—full of color and chance, joys and sorrows. Since your own life was stagnant and murky gray like water pooled in a dirt road, you wrapped yourself up in others’ stories.

Despite your curiosity, you keep walking until the voices of the girls and the young man fade out behind you. It is growing late now, and you need to get back to the so-called palace and serve Master Stephic and his courtiers dinner. He would be expecting his evening mug of ale—you’d been late before and paid dearly for it, as if he couldn’t get up and get it himself, of send one his courtiers to get it for him. It wasn’t proper decorum. 

You knew it was no better—and likely far worse—in the tannery, or in the lumberyard. And yet, you could not help but wish that you were one of the peasants working there. Sure, they worked day in day out, with only shacks to return to. And yet, they had a community. They had families, friends, people to care about and to care about them. You may have a warm bed in a warm house, but you had none of that. 

You spent most of your days alone, despite being surrounded by people. You also had Stephic breathing down your back constantly, treating you like personal servant girl. Which, you supposed, you are. It isn’t as if you can pack up your few belongings and leave. You have nowhere to go and no one to go with. Not to mention, he’d likely send men after you. Being his servant, you knew way too much about the workings of his small court, and of the political maneuvering of the ambitious young man, desperate to climb the ranks of the Nilfguaardian nobility. 

No, you were not so naive as to think you would be able to walk away. You were only safe while you were still useful to him—or once you were dead. 

You reach the back entrance to the manor just as the sun dips below the horizon and the evening crickets begin to chirp. You quickly enter through the kitchens, muttering a greeting to the cook—another Nilfguaardian shitlord. He acts as if he is cooking to serve a king in a castle rather than a cook serving a low-level noble in a backwood town. 

“Thought you weren’t going to make it,” he says, barely sparing a glance your way as you quickly wash your hands in the washbasin and straighten your dress, smoothing it out in the front. “Now hurry and take the Master Stephic and his guest’s ale!” 

He nodded his head in the direction of too fresh mugs of ale, topped with foam. You quirk an eyebrow as you hurry across the kitchen to take them. You were unaware of expected guests. Usually, Stephic spent days preparing for the arrival of anyone important. You rake your mind, trying to remember if he’d mentioned anyone. Given the events of the day, and the fact that you are entirely distracted by thoughts of the Witcher and the Wraith, it is not surprising that you would’ve forgotten. 

Then your mind crashes to a halt. _The Witcher._

Stephic was always social climbing, trying to impress his fellow Nilfguaardian nobles with stories of illustrious guests. Geralt of Rivia—as a famous man, he would be an excellent candidate for being such story fodder. But… The monster slayer had not seemed impressed with Stephic, from what you had witnessed through the crowd earlier. You would have thought he would be staying in the inn, not here. Then again—the inn in town was seedy, to use the kindest possible word. Staying here, if you set aside the unfortunate drawback of having to deal with Stephic, was likely much more comfortable. At least here, the sheets were clean. 

“You daft wench!” The cook’s voice shocks your out of your reverie, and you grab the mugs with hate. “Hurry up, he’s got a guest, I said!” 

“Yes, yes, of course, I’m sorry…” You mutter, trailing off as you hurry through the narrow kitchen and toward the door leading to the formal dining room. 

The questions swirling around in your mind are answered immediately upon entering the large and ornately decorated room. The table is large, with several seats, but only two are filled. On one side, Master Stephic, and on the other—Geralt of Rivia. 

You try not to stare as you step forward and place their mugs on the table, unsure what exactly you are feeling. You can’t decide if you want to thank him or scream at him. So you try to keep your eyes down. 

But when you chance a glance in the Witcher’s direction against your better judgment, your face heats up when you realize that his amber eyes are fixed on you, face contorted ever so slightly in a look that you cannot quite understand—curiosity? Shock? You cannot tell. But, he is staring straight at the locket around your neck. 

Your eyes meet his for just a fraction of a second, and you swear that they are full of questions. But perhaps you are overreaching—or even imagining—this attention. After all, how could he possibly know about your necklace? Sure, it was a bit nicer than anything most peasants would wear, but you were not an ordinary peasant, given your place here. You’ve heard about Witchers, and how they can sense things, but you have no idea how he’d be able to sense any connection between the locket you wore and the wraith plaguing the village.

Of course, you do not dare open your mouth to voice any of the one million new questions swirling around in your head. As Stephic’s personal servant, you were not there to speak or ask questions—you were just there to make sure his meals were properly plated and cleaned up after. You’d never been one to speak only when spoken you before; but now your life depended on it, so you were quiet as a mouse. 

You can feel the Witcher’s eyes on you as you step back a few paces away from the table. Even though you’ve turned your attention back to Stephic, you can feel them hot as two amber stars burning as they shine on your skin. Apparently, Stephic notices too, because he pulls his lips into a sly smile, eager to impress the Witcher. 

“She is pretty, ain’t she?” he says, clearly mistaking the Witcher’s keep interest in the locket around your neck as lust. You swallow hard and look at the ground. If the monster hunter were to say anything about the trinket… You don’t know how Stephic would react. 

Thankfully, though, he says nothing for now—just lets out a sort of amused sigh and mutters an “Mhm” that could mean just about anything. 

“Y/N is a rare beauty, for a town like this,” Stephic continues haughtily as he takes a deep drink from his earthenware mug. “Could’ve sent her to work in the tannery, but decided to keep her here in the house.” 

Your face burns even hotter as you blush, embarrassed and slightly mortified that he was speaking to you like this in front of a guest like Geralt of Rivia. This wasn’t the first time he’d spoken like this. It happened particularly often on nights when heavy drink with his friends was involved. He made it seem like some sort of gift that he was gracing you with his attention—him being a noble and all. But really, it just made you feel dirty. 

“How very kind of you.” 

You are surprised to hear Geralt respond. His words are laced with a slight edge of sarcasm, but Stephic doesn’t pick up on it. 

“Found her huddled in an old hovel,” Stephic continues right along with his tale. “And look at her now! Serving in a fine home.” 

Now, your face is flushed more with rage than with embarrassment. You’d love to give Stephic a good slap in the face, the way he made it seem as if he were some sort of savior and not one of the people that destroyed her life. 

“A dream for any war orphan, I’m sure.” 

This time, when the Witcher spoke, you betrayed yourself and chanced another glance in his direction; this time to see him looking at you—a conspiratorial wry smile on his face. It was refreshing—someone openly speaking to Stephic this way—even if Stephic was too dense to realize he was being poked fun at. For the first time in in longer than your could remember, it felt like you had someone on your side.

But then, your blood feels like ice in your veins as realization courses through you. War orphan. Ok—it is not difficult to guess that a peasant girl found hiding in the rubble of her family’s home was an orphan. Especially with the history of this town; and with the history of so many towns just like it. Still—you wonder if he has already guessed, already figured out that the locket around your neck, and the very blood in your veins is connected to the wraith haunting the village.

Your eyes must be wide with fear, because Stephic laughs darkly. You want to turn and run—run and never look back. Never think about this place ever again, and never have to see or hear what becomes of what is left of your mother. 

“She’s a scared little thing, though,” he says, his eyes mocking. “To think, all of this kindness and she skitters around the house like a wraith.” 

“Hm.” The Witcher grumbles a response, looking at Stephic now. “Now, I am not an expert in servants, but the limited experience I have with them tells me that the ones who are treated kindly do not flinch when they are spoken to.” His words are sharp and pointed, and you once again feel a pang of…something. 

Stephic takes another deep draught from his mug, emptying its contents and slamming it down on the table. He swallows, then laughs one of his short, dismissive, and cruel laughs. “I did not know Witchers were so fond of defending the help.” 

“We’re not,” the Witcher says, smiling hideously. 

Your breath catches in your throat, and you have a difficult time choking back a cough. Everything about this man is an enigma. You have read about Witchers, so you know what is said about them. They are apolitical, cold, unfeeling, motivated only by coin. Perhaps that is all that there is to it here, too. You hand moves to your chest in subconscious effort to protect the silver trinket. 

Stephic relaxes at the words, laughing once more and gesturing casually toward you. “So _that’s_ what this is about,” he says with a grin, “If you wanted use of my servant, you could have just asked, Witcher.” 

You swallow uncomfortably, fists clenching at your sides, hidden behind the folds of your dress. Perhaps you had interpreted those looks wrongly—you’d heard other stories about Witchers, too. The tales of visits to brothels, of insatiable appetites for women, but not appetite for emotion. You’d like nothing more than to bolt from the room. 

Disappointment drops like a stone in your belly. You were foolish to think, even for a moment, that this silver-haired stranger was on your side. Mother would have chided you for victimizing yourself, but truly, you had lost utterly everyone who had ever cared for you—who you had ever cared for. Whether they died that day when the town was sacked or were currently being worked to death in the tannery or in the mines, they were lost to you.

“Well,” the Witcher says, “I would like to speak with her, if I may?” He speaks it in a question, but it is a demand, in all reality. 

“But of course,” Stephic says with another sly smile, pushing the chair back from the table and standing up. You, on the other hand, still have not moved. You are unsure where to turn, where to look, what to say. 

Stephic, apparently offended by your lack of excitement, crosses over to you in only a few easy strides. You gasp as he grabs your arm and roughly shoves you toward the Witcher. Your hip collides with the table painfully, and you hastily reach a hand out to steady yourself. 

“The man _said_ he wanted to talk to you, sweetheart.” 

You cannot help but glower at him— _as if I did not hear him._

The Witcher’s expression is unreadable as Stephic moves past you, and out the door leading to the parlor, leaving you alone with the stranger. 

If you hadn’t been paralyzed with fear before, you certainly were now. You still don’t quite understand what is going on, or what to expect. Thoughts spin around in your head at dizzying speed. The Witcher, however, appears completely and utterly calm. It is infuriating. 

“Your necklace,” he says after a moment. It is not a question, nor does it appear to be a demand for you to hand it over to him. It is, or so seems to be, a statement of fact. 

After a moment of staring at him, hand on your heart, you finally find words. “What about it?” 

“My medallion started vibrating the moment you walked into the room.” Your eyes fix on the wolf around his neck, and you remember more of what you’ve read about Witchers. Their medallions are special—used to detect magic. You had forgotten about that. 

“But my necklace is not magic,” you say as the fear slowly subsides. 

“Maybe not,” the Witcher says, tilting his head as he studies you, “But it is connected to something. Something supernatural, perhaps?” 

Your palms have started to sweat, and you wipe them on your dress, trying to maintain some composure. Is this an interrogation? What if he blames you for the wraith? If the peasants get word of it, they’ll hang you for a witch, if you’re not hanged by Nilfgaurd for treason first. Then again, that’d be the end of all this. Would it really be that bad?

“Want to explain to me what’s going on here?” _Fuck. This is an interrogation._

“I… Mr. Witcher, I had nothing to do with it, I swear! I didn’t make it—I mean, I didn’t make it attack anyone, I—”

You are quite on the verge of full-blown panic, so it takes you a few seconds to register that the sound you’re hearing is the Witcher laughing; a surprisingly warm sound. You stare at him, once again utterly confused. 

“Well of course you didn’t!” He shakes his head, grinning at you, apparently amused by your reaction. “I’ve been a Witcher for a _long_ time, and I have yet to run into a single person able to control a Noonwraith.” 

You are so relieved by this that you burst out laughing, falling into an empty chair to catch your breath. “Oh thank _gods_ ,” you manage between breaths. “I thought you were going to have me hanged!” 

You had said it about half-seriously, but the look on the Witcher’s face before he laughs again makes you peel off into laughter again, too. You can’t even remember the last time that you laughed. It’s been ages. Your lungs burn at the unfamiliar sensation, your eyes filling with tears as you both laugh harder. 

“I’m a _Witcher_ , not a witch hunter,” he says, half-smile on his lips as he reaches out a hand and places it on your shoulder. 

Your eyes are streaming tears from laughing so hard. This is the first time in so long that you’ve felt _anything_. And now, its as if your brain cannot decide what emotion to feel—because a moment later, you choke on a sob. And then all of a sudden, you’re gasping for breath between sobs.

“She was my mother.”

You don’t even realize that you’ve flung yourself at the Witcher, head buried in the crook of his neck, clinging to him desperately, until you feel his arms around you, holding you there. 

***

_**To be continued.** _


	2. From One Monster to Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ## Part II: From One Monster to the Next
> 
> **Warning:** Implied  
> violence/assault, nothing graphic.
> 
> **Summary:**  
>  _The famous  
>  Geralt of Rivia has accepted a contract in your town – he will be banishing a  
> Noonwraith from an abandoned home; your old home. But as it turns out, the  
> wraith is not the only monster that the White Wolf promises to fight._
> 
> **Word Count:** 1,605
> 
> **Author’s Notes:** I know  
> this is a short little chapter, but I hope you all enjoy it.

Hours later, you and the Witcher are in his room. Perhaps you were being slightly naïve, but you felt safe with the white-haired stranger – even if the room he was staying in was a room filled with memories that you preferred to push to the very back of your mind, where you never had to think about it. 

You sit in an overstuffed chair more comfortable than your cot in the servants’ quarters, and Geralt doesn’t comment on the fact that you’ve kicked off your worn boots and are sitting with your knees tucked up against your chest, arms wrapped around your legs as if you could roll up so small that you’d disappear into the plush fabric. You are exhausted from your earlier show of emotion, so you have your head resting on your knees. 

“The house, it wasn’t much, but it was _everything_ to her.” You feel like you’ve been explaining your entire life to the man for hours now, though you cannot possibly have been. It’d taken at least an hour and a half for you to stop crying – for the memories to stop replaying in your head; making it impossible to speak or even think. 

[[MORE]]

The Witcher keeps his face neutral, thankfully not looking at you with the pitying look that made you so angry. “Hmm,” he says, shifting in his seat, “That explains why she’s anchored to that area.” You nod understanding, fighting hard against the exhaustion that has settled in your bones. 

“But she’s started to venture outside that area, if what Stephic says is true,” he continues almost as if he is speaking to himself, “Strange.” You look at him, a questioning look in your eyes. You had thought she was just gaining strength from having been left alone for so long. It had not crossed your mind that it was strange. 

Apparently reading your thoughts by the look on your face, the Witcher looks at you. “Usually, Noonwraiths stick to one location,” he explained. “Though, they are also drawn to objects that were dear to them.” 

Understanding where this conversation was going, you release your iron grip on your legs and reach up with shaking hands to unclasp the necklace. However, your hands are shaking, and your trembling fingers fumble with the clasp. It doesn’t help that you don’t even remember the last time you’d removed the piece of jewelry. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, looking like he means it. “I will have to destroy it, to break the curse and set her free.” He stands up, padding over the carpet and crouching down next to you, hand resting on the arm of the chair. You just nod understanding, continuing to fumble with the delicate clasp. 

“Let me help you,” he says gently. You would, in most cases, have the urge to slap the man away; insist upon the fact that you do not need help and that you have done a decent job of caring for yourself for the last few years. However, for whatever strange reason, you trust him, and so you drop your hands and shift in the chair so that he is behind you. 

He brushes your hair aside with surprisingly gentle fingers and reaches for the clasp, undoing it easily, his fingers brushing your neck ever so slightly. His touch raises goosebumps on your skin, and you find yourself wishing for more. At the same time, you wonder what the hell is wrong with you. Looking for comfort in the touch of a stranger was not something you ordinarily did. It wasn’t smart, and it only could lead to hurt. And besides – what could a world-famous monster hunter want in a girl like you in a place like this? 

“I know it may not be a comfort,” the Witcher speaks softly, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck, “But I will lift the curse trapping your mother here – I promise you that.” 

You shift in your seat again, turning so you are facing him, your faces just inches apart. “It is a comfort,” you say quietly, looking down at your hands, because looking into the Witcher amber eyes was making you feel a bit too much of some emotion you could not understand. But truly, it is. You know that she is dead, and that there was no bringing her back. It would be foolish to think something like that were even possible. The most you could hope for was someone to break the curse – even if you never saw her again. Knowing that she would no longer be stuck in this backwater town would have to be enough. 

You take a steadying breath, finally wrenching your eyes from your hands and back to meet the Witcher’s. Despite your exhaustion, there is some trace of adrenaline still pumping through your veins. “I’m coming with you.”

Geralt studies you for a moment before shaking his head. “I know you want to help your mother, but I cannot allow that,” he says. “Noonwraiths can be particularly dangerous for those they are tied to.” Of course, you’d expected that response, but you have no intention of accepting it. 

You shake your head with a rueful smile. “I’ve much more to be afraid of than a Noonwraith,” you tell him, one hand gesturing vaguely behind you towards the door of the room. Yes – you were scared when walking about town in the middle of the day, but you were more scared of the man you were stuck serving. And, though you would not admit this to the Witcher, you did not find the idea of dying all that unpleasant. Better to die setting your mother free than at the hands of Stephic the next time he gets truly angry with you. 

Besides, you’d thought of a plan from the moment Stephic posted the contract. Under your cot, beneath an old blanket, you had an old rucksack packed with your few possessions. Once you knew that your mother was set free, there would be nothing truly holding you to this place. There would be no better time to slip out than when Stephic was distracted, waiting to see if the Witcher was successful. She would be long gone before she even noticed her absence. You’d find a place to hide; you had to. 

Geralt pulls you from your thoughts when he finally speaks again. “But the wraith—she’s tied to you by _blood **.**_ ” Quite unexpectedly, he takes your and, tracing your knuckles with the pad of his thumb. You suck in a sharp breath – not because the feeling is unpleasant, but because it is, well, _too_ pleasant. 

He looks down at your hand for a moment before finally looking back up, eyes meeting yours. “Being nearby could _kill_ you, Y/N.” 

His comment earns another rueful smile from you as you shake your head. “As if I’d fare better here!” You know that you should not be lashing out at this man, this person who, unlike nearly everyone you’d come into contact within the last years, treated you with kindness. And yet, here you were, lashing out. 

And yet, Geralt of Rivia does not react in anger but with several moments of silence.

“Running from one monster to another is not the answer,” he says quietly, peering over toward the closed and locked door. 

You chew your bottom lip nervously, knowing that despite how very badly you want to leave, the Witcher is right. And still, you shake your head. “All of life is running from one monster to another!” 

The Witcher frowns, releasing your hand, which falls like dead weight back into your lap. You feel quite on the verge of crying again, but you are determined not to. You’d shown enough weakness in the last hours – there was no need to show more. 

“You’re wrong.” The Witcher finally speaks, slowly standing up, but not moving away from the chair. “The world is full of monsters, but not exclusively so.” 

You look up at him through damp lashes, cursing the tears welling up in your eyes. You want to retort, but you have no faith in your ability to hold it together if you attempt to speak. So, you say nothing, waiting for him to speak again. 

“You want to escape this place?” he finally asks. 

“More than I can say,” you say, voice cracking, “I haven’t got any gold, but once I’m out of here, I can find a job, I can pay you… I will just need a bit of time, please, Sir, I—” 

Geralt silences you by taking your hand once more, shaking his head. For a moment, your heart sinks – he is going to say no. Witchers do not work for free, and you’ve got nothing to give him. But before you can get up and leave, he tugs on your hand, pulling you up from your seat and toward him. 

“First, call me Geralt,” he says, a smile tugging at the very corners of his lips. “And second, I will not accept gold from you; but I will help you leave this place. I am more concerned with monsters than money.”

Without much thought, you throw your arms around him once more, burying your face in his chest so that the soft “Thank you,” is muffed. And his arms are around you as well, one pressed gently against your head and the other wrapped around your shoulders. 

“It’s going to be ok,” he says, squeezing you a bit tighter. 

For the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel as if it actually will be. 


	3. From the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The famous Geralt of Rivia has promised to banish a Noonwraith from your village - one that he knows is tied to you directly. Fortunately for you, that is not the only monster he vows to banish. Despite his insistence that you do not, under any circumstances, accompany him to the old home to which the wraith is bound, the White Wolf may not have a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning(s):** Violence, blood.
> 
> **A/N:** I am aware that the Noonwraith in this story isn’t necessarily 100% lore-friendly, but in this house, we bend lore for the sake of storytelling.  
>   
> 

**This story, and all of my other stories, are posted on[my tumblr](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/). I also have a [personal tumblr](https://katwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/), where I post original writing and other fun things. Thank you all so much for reading, I can’t tell you how much it means to me. **

* * *

##  **From the Ashes**

You wake up at dawn, soft light peeking through the mismatched washboard walls of your small room, and flooding in through the weather-beaten window above the small desk. You are surprised that you fell asleep at all, with all the unanswerable questions racing through your head and the nervous energy that seems to be lighting your nerves on fire.

You dress quickly, with shaky hands – a plain dress cinched at the waist with a belt and your beaten-up leather boots. You feel strange without the silver piece of jewelry hanging around your neck, but you know that it is for the best. Still, you stare at yourself in the cloudy mirror that never seems to get clean no matter how much your scrub it, feeling the slight sting of emptiness and loss.

You rinse your hands and face in the washbasin at the other side of the room and comb your hair, just as you would any morning; as if this was just a normal morning. And, indeed, it starts that way. You rush down to the kitchens to help prepare breakfast – in your case, mostly just setting things on platters and rushing back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. Usually, Stephic would just take his breakfast in his study, but this morning, there is a guest, and so the dining room must be prepared.

You feel a pang of emotion when you spot the two chairs, left out at slight angles. You take a breath to stay composed as you straighten them and push them back in. A quick survey of the rest of the dining room confirms that it is ready – perfectly suitable for Stephic and his coin-bought friends. And, of course, Geralt of Rivia, the guest for whom this whole thing was being prepared.

Geralt of Rivia, who people call a mutant and a monster, but who was the only person to treat you like a human being in years.

Geralt of Rivia, who told you everything was going to be ok.

Finally, you head back to the kitchen to eat your own breakfast. While the household is eating eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes, your breakfast is the same as always – a bowl of sticky oats with a spare bit of honeycomb. Stephic liked to talk about how well the servants in his house were treated, but it was such a bold-faced lie no one dared challenge it – except Geralt of Rivia.

By now, you can hear the creaking of hardwood floors as the rest of the manor begins to wake. You stomach churns with anxiety, making it increasingly difficult to eat the porridge in front of you, despite the fact that there was extra honeycomb today, which you love. You know that the Witcher told you that you cannot go with him to the old house, but you don’t plan on following that advice. Sure, you know that you shouldn’t disobey orders, but it is the cursed spirit of your mother. All of the anger and bitterness you feel, but multiplied tenfold; enough to leave her spirit – angry and lethal and stuck in this god-forsaken town.

“Girl,” the chef barks, pulling you from your thoughts, “Are you going to finish eating or just stare off into space like you’ve lost your brain?”

You turn and glance at him, glowering. Ordinarily, you do whatever you can to appease everyone in the house for fear of retaliation or punishment, but today is no ordinary day. And, if the Witcher was not speaking falsely, perhaps you won’t have to worry about Stephic and his monsters any longer.

“Don’t look at me like that, wench,” the cook shoots back, eyes narrowed in frustration. He is not used to being challenged by you.

“I’ll look at you however I please,” you shoot back, feeling a surge of energy that you have not felt in years. With an end to this living hell in sight, some of your old fearlessness has returned – remnants of a personality long abandoned for the sake of self-preservation.

After a moment of tense silence, the cook barks a laugh. “You think, just because you had one conversation with the famous Geralt of Rivia, that your life is about to change?”

You try not to let your face reveal that he had struck a nerve, reminded you of the precarious situation you were still in. You will your expression to turn to stone, and are somewhat successful, even as your mind bursts with questions – namely, how the hell he knows that you stayed awake well into the night speaking with the Witcher.

“He is here to lift a curse, not free servants worth less than the dirt caked on his boots.”

A wave of rage crashes over you, leaving black static clouds around the edges of your vision. You stand up with a huff, nearly knocking over the rickety wooden chair in the process. “You seem a little over-confident for a _chef_ in a backwater town that no one bothers to visit,” you sneer.

“And you seem a bit naïve for a servant girl with no family and not chance at a life even half as good as this outside these walls.”

The words knock the wind from your lungs, but you don’t back down. Even as you hear footsteps on the stairs and voices filling the dining room just on the other side of the door. It feels good, fighting back. Even if the Witcher does break his word and leave you abandoned here, at least you realize now that defending yourself is not pointless. You’re beaten when you back down, weak as a mouse, and let everyone walk over you. Why not risk the same beating but going down with a fight?

“If there is one thing I am not, it is naïve.” Your voice is low, but in the way that only indicates how desperately you are trying to maintain control.

“Hm,” he says, patronizing, “So, crying on a stranger’s shoulder about your hardships is not naïve?”

His tone is so nasty that it takes every bit of self-control you have not to spit at him. You fully intent to come up with something horrid to respond with, but your mind betrays you, and the only words that come out are soft and confused. “You were listening.”

The chef laughs again, that grating laugh that sounds more like a rabid dog barking than a human expressing joy. “Me?” he asks, “Of course not. But you know the staff – word travels fast around here.” He smiles nastily, looking you straight in the eyes, “And the word is that you long to _escape this place.”_

You swallow hard. Of course, you should have been more vigilant. The manor was crawling with staff and courtiers, all to make Stephic seem more important than he was. Your worry, though, is not the gossip of Stephic’s henchmen, but that word might get to him before you can slip out, before Geralt has a chance to help you leave this place. If Stephic has learned about your plans, there is a chance – and not a small one – that he will do whatever is in his power not to let you leave.

But then again, how can he stop you if you are already gone?

You make up your mind in that instant, looking the man straight in the eye just as he had done. “Fuck off,” you snarl, before storming out of the kitchen through the back door. You don’t pause to look back. You don’t regret not running up to your room to grab your possessions. You just leave, out through the back gardens and into the town, headed straight for the place that you know you should not be going – all the while trying your best to push the harsh reality that Stephic will likely have his guards looking for you within the hour.

***

You sit with your back against a tree, just beyond the old burnt-out cottages. The plants are wild here, with no one bothering to cut them, and, unlike so many of the forests surrounding your little town, this one is thick with trees. No one comes here, even to cut down trees for lumber. Nilfguaard has plenty of other forests to destroy to build more ships – this one is safe primarily because it is unsafe. And yet, you do not feel scared.

The only way you can tell the time is by the position of the sun in the sky. And, according to that, it is inching closer and closer to noon. Surely, the white-haired Witcher will be arriving soon. But, from your vantage point, where you can see everything, you have yet to see him approach. Perhaps he is preparing – or, perhaps you were naïve and he had no intention of lifting the curse or freeing you. Maybe he just wanted to stop you from crying and get on with his evening.

With so many _what if_ s and _maybe_ s, your mind is foggy and clouded, making it difficult to concentrate on much of anything.

Perhaps that is why it was so easy for the Witcher to sneak up behind you, or perhaps it is just his specialty. You jump when you here your name, low and rumbling.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking some mix between angry and surprised.

“I had to leave.” It isn’t much of an explanation, you know. There were other places you could have gone, of course. But at the same time, there was no way you could say away. Part of you knew that it was because the cook’s words had really gotten to you. What if he decided to leave without fulfilling his promise – you had to get out of that place, and you couldn’t wait around for Geralt to come back and fetch you.

“Certainly a few more hours wouldn’t have been too much more trouble,” he says, glancing you up and down. “You didn’t even bring any belongings.”

You look back at him and shrug, “I don’t have any belongings.” It isn’t a lie. You have a few dresses, stockings, and other clothing items, but your only true personal possession was the silver locket that you knew the Witcher now had; and you weren’t getting that back. The rest didn’t matter. Once you found steady work somewhere, you’d buy more.

“Fair enough,” he said, resigned. Now he is looking past you, toward your old family home. Curious, you turn around as well, trying to figure out what exactly he was looking at, but realizing it was probably useless. You didn’t have Witcher eyes, after all.

“It is dangerous for you here.” You don’t turn around to look at him, but you can hear the worry in his voice. Of course it isn’t safe for you here – you knew that. But at the same time, neither was anywhere else in the city. The only difference here was the type of monster you were hiding from. You tell him as much.

He stays quiet for a moment before finally letting out a deep _hmm_.

“Which house is it?” he asks, looking at the cluster of burnt-out shells of what used to be homes.

“The one on the left,” you say, gesturing toward the familiar charred wood.

“Ok.” He seems to be calculating something in his head, likely something to do with whatever it was that he was going to have to do here. You hear him moving behind you, so you turn around. He has pulled the locket from one of his pockets and his digging around in his pocket with his free hand until he finds what he was looking for. You eye the small vial curiously, not recognizing the liquid inside.

“It’s Spectre Oil,” he explains, as if he can hear your thoughts. He unsheathes his silver sword, puling the stopper from the bottle and applying the clear oil to the blade. “Without it, there’s no way I’d win this fight.”

You nod understanding, not wanting to speak or distract him, despite your intense curiosity. You continue watching as he focuses on the tiny locket in his other hand, studying it for a moment.

“Right.” Geralt stands up, looking toward the rubble of your old home. “Better get this done, then.” His matter-of-fact tone is almost off-putting. But then again, he is a Witcher, and this is his profession, after all. He must know what he’s doing.

He doesn’t need to tell you not to follow him, but you don’t need him to. Suddenly, you have no urge to get closer – no urge to see what is left of your mother. So, you stay where you are, half-hidden behind a tree, though you don’t know if that is any help at all against a spectral creature.

You watch Geralt make his way over the house with feline grace. It’s like watching a dance as he stops in front of the house, bending down to place the silver chain on the ground, in what used to be the doorway you’d walked in and out of so many times, taking it for granted that it would always be there. Call it young naivete or just general hope and faith in humanity – you just never thought an entire army would march through and destroy it.

You only start to feel the prickle of nerves when he stands up. You aren’t sure whether it is your own nerves crackling or whether it’s the air around you – it could easily be either. After a moment, the air fills with the strange hum that you can only identify because you’ve heard it before, several times. You used to walk by here before it became obvious that it was too dangerous.

The strange hum, followed by the unsettling howl of a creature that shouldn’t exist.

And then she appears.

She moves like lighting, but so does the Witcher. It is difficult to keep up. It feels strange to watch, considering that used to be your mother and all – but you try to remind yourself that this is not her anymore.

_She’s gone._

But at the same time, she’s right in front of you. Or rather, a good thirty yards away, in front of the Witcher, who appears to be dodging, parrying, and attacking all at one time. And then there’s purple light, a circle, and shrieks that make you involuntarily cover your ears. It takes you a moment to realize that the sound is magnified because you are screaming too – it’s like your blood is boiling, overheating you from the inside.

You open you eyes slowly, looking up to see the Witcher, backed up against what is remaining of one of the walls. Something seems wrong – he looks more like he’s fighting the wraith off than actually fighting the wraith. And the _pain_. Something feels so wrong.

You realize, with horror, that every time he moves his hand, casting that spell with the purple light and slashing his silver sword at the wraith, you feel the pain like that deadly silver is pushed up to your own throat.

_“She’s connected to you by your blood.”_

And suddenly, you know exactly what to do.

Fighting the pain, you bend and pull the knife you had hidden in your boot. You take a few steps, extremely shaky at first, but growing less so the closer you get.

And then you realize the reason why – Geralt is pressed up against the wall again, with the Wraith ready to slash at him with claw-like hands.

Everything happens at once. Geralt realizes your presence, eyes wide as he sees you standing directly in the doorway, where your necklace lays. Then he notices that you have a knife in your hand.

_“Y/N_!” he shouts, “ _No!_ ”

You barely hear him. The wraith is about to dig those deadly talons into him, and you cannot let that happen.

“ _Mamma!”_ You scream, drawing the wraith’s attention as you draw the knife across your palm. You wince as blood wells up and falls onto the dilapidated stones.

Faster than you can comprehend, the wraith turns on you with a screech that makes you drop to your knees, coving your own. You’re too scared to look up; too scared that all you will see is that face, that tattered dress, those monstrous hands.

You don’t see her, but you feel it. The sharp scratch of claws on your back. It burns, hurts, makes you scream louder and press yourself to the ground, attempting to roll out of the way. You feel you back, damp with what you know is blood as it soaks through your now tattered dress. Your eyes are still squeezed shut against the horror, not wanting to believe that this is happening; not wanting to believe that, after everything, this is how it all ends.

And then, you hear the swish of steel and a grunt that must be Geralt, and then a terrible screech that sounds like it comes from something that has never been human.

And then, _silence_.

You head is swimming as you lose blood, exhaustion taking over. In a daze, you open your eyes and see Geralt standing there, sword still drawn – alone.

_“Geralt,”_ you mutter, taking a shaky breath as your vision clouds.

“Y/N,” he says, dropping his silver and falling to his knees beside you. He puts one arm up under your neck, supporting your head, and the other under your knees.

You are in an out of consciousness now, but you are vaguely aware of him picking you up, wrapping your hand and pressing cloth against your back. You feel pressure, like he’s wrapped something across the middle of your body as well, but you must have blacked out for that part.

You think you smell smoke, another fire burning in this burnt-out place. And then you feel his arms around you again, and warm lips on your forehead.

The last thing you are aware of is a whisper against your ear, “I’m getting you out of here now, Y/N.”

And then the world fades to black, but you are smiling. Finally, the curse is lifted, right where it began. And here, upon the ashes of your old life, something new and beautiful feels like it is beginning.


	4. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Noonwraith slain, your journey with Geralt begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Summary:** One monster is taken care of, but the fight did not come without cost. With you injured, Geralt sets out to take care of the remaining monster. This just might be the beginning of a whole new life for you; a life where you never have to see this town ever again.   
> **Word Count:** 2,045   
> **Warning(s):** Violence, blood.   
> **A/N:** Sorry it’s taken so long for an update on this story—Hope you all enjoy! Thank you all, as always, for reading. 

> If you enjoy my work and want to see more, you can check out [**_my tumblr_**](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/), where I post all of my work. I also have a [_**personal tumblr**_](https://katwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/) where I post original writing and other things. Thanks, as always, for reading my work. It means the world.

**New Beginnings**

Geralt rushes back to the baron’s manor, clutching you against his chest as if holding you tighter will slow down the inevitable. He never should have allowed you to stay – he should have been more careful. It had been reckless of him to allow you so close during those crucial moments. He’d put you at risk, and you might very well die because of it. 

He doesn’t bother to explain the situation upon barging through the door. No one in this damned manor cares enough about you to be even remotely deserving. Instead, he barks orders. “Clean bed, now!” He knows it would be nearly impossible to keep his voice down, so he doesn’t even try. Why waste the energy? 

[[MORE]]

Thankfully, the staff he encounters upon entering the manor – two guards who look half bored to dead – respond nearly immediately to his frenzied yelling. One of them motioned for him to follow, which he does, cradling your limp body in his arms gently, so as not to jostle you around too much. The gashes on your back are not only deep, but filled with poison thanks to the Noonwraith’s taloned fingers, and he wants to do what he can to avoid making the pain even worse. 

For you, the world seems to exist only in a murky grayness where you can neither sleep nor wake. You are reminded only of the intense fever dreams you’d had when you were a child and contracted Yellow Fever. You shiver against the nonexistent cold as heat radiates off your body, soaking the fresh sheets of an unfamiliar bed with sweat. Geralt can only watch with a grim determination as he goes about cleaning and dressing your wounds. 

Images flash, causing you to toss and turn in your fitful false sleep. You see the wraith, with its spectral glow and horribly disfigured face, hands like talons. You see Geralt pressed back against the wall, the wraith descending upon him. It is like you’re watching the scene, rather than taking part in it. You watch as you pull the knife. You see the look of doubt and dread flicker on your face for a fraction of a second before you watch as you drag the sharp edge of the knife against your open palm. Your blood sizzles as it hits the stone below, which you can hear even over your own yelling. 

_“Mama!”_

You see the wraith charge at the girl, who looks utterly terrified and utterly determined at the same time. You almost forget that the girl you are watching is you as the wraith turns and descends upon her, striking out with razor-sharp claws and tearing away cloth and flesh in one easy stroke. You watch in horror as the girl – me, you vaguely remember – flattens herself on the ground, as if hoping she might sink right into it. 

Thankfully, you are only partially present as pain sears through you as the Witcher carefully cleans each wound. Though his hands are gentle, the elixir he uses to counteract the venom is not. He grimaces as he holds you down gently as he pours the elixir into your open wounds, pushing against you as you fight to throw him off, no doubt trying to escape the hissing burn of the anti-venom. He knows how the elixir feels as it burns away the venom by indiscriminately tearing through your cells. 

He gave you as much as he could of a human-safe herbal mixture for the pain, but from the way you are trying to thrash about, it seems it has only lessened the pain from one level of excruciating to another, slightly lower one. He hurries to finish cleaning the wounds so that he can apply a numbing salve and wrap cloth bandages tightly around your body, brow furrowing as you finally stop trying to lurch away from him – though he is unsure if it is because the numbing salve is working or because you have simply given up fighting. 

He makes no attempt to turn you onto your back, not wanting to further irritate the wounds. Though you are tightly wrapped in bandages, he worries that in moving you, he would risk tearing at the deep scratches. So, he leaves you on your stomach as he goes to brew an elixir. He knows he cannot give you any of the Witcher potions that he has tucked in his pack for fear it will kill you, so he has no choice but to start from scratch. For the first time in a long while, he is quite thankful for Vesimir’s insistence that you learn human healing potions as well, despite their general uselessness to a Witcher. 

Stephic does not interrupt once; not even to check and see how his oh so valued servant is fairing. The Witcher doesn’t find this in the least bit surprising. All noblemen, be them Nilfgaardian, Temerian, Redianian... They’re all the same. They care only for themselves and their profit, no matter what they claim. If you survive this, you will be left with a horrible scar from your shoulder down your back. He supposes that, in Stephic’s eyes, that must diminish the value of his property very much. It is despicable, but it is nothing he has not seen time and time again. 

_At least_ , he thinks, _that should make this all easier_.

Having rushed back to care for you, he has not had the chance to speak to Stephic regarding his reward. As per usual with Barons, he had offered a tidy sum for the contract. And, truth be told, Geralt knows that he could really use the coin. Autumn will give way to winter sooner than later, and work is hard to come by in the winter. But still... 

* * *

“You want the _girl_?” Somehow, Stephic finds the request so ridiculous that he is laughing, more like cackling, really. “I offer you four hundred Crowns to off the wraith and you want to trade it for a maimed wench?” 

Geralt has to clench and unclench his fists at his sides to keep from lashing out. Perhaps it is the nonchalant way in which the Baron shakes his head in disbelief that angers him; the way that he cannot possibly imagine that your life is of any value – but he would very much like to punch the pompous asshole in the face. 

He holds back for your sake, responding with a curt nod, “That is exactly what I’d like to do.” 

Stephic stands for a moment, hand on his chin in thought as he considers the Witcher before him. “Intersting...” he muses. 

The Witcher looks at him, eyebrows raised. He can’t help himself.

“Hardly interesting, _Your Excellency_.” The words drip from his lips like poisoned honey. He will have to play along if he is going to get anywhere with this man. “You know girls like her can fetch a good deal more than four hundred Crowns, if you know how to go about conducting business.” The words disgust him as he says them, but he keeps his expression neutral as ever. 

“Not when they’ve gone and gotten themselves shredded apart by a wraith,” Stephac points out. Geralt left you, asleep at last thanks to the specially brewed potion, but Stephic had finally knocked on the door and set his eyes upon the horribly disfigured back of his most special servant-girl. He’d even dared to wrinkle his nose at the sight; another moment Geralt would have liked to kick his teeth in. 

“So you want a raise, is that it?” asks Stephic, shaking his head. 

Geralt, though, is a step ahead, as always. “Perhaps I do,” he said pointedly, with conviction. “After all that shit, I certainly deserve one.” He crosses his muscled arms over his chest, eyes flickering with satisfaction as the nobleman backs away slightly. 

“Well, perhaps this could be a good deal for me,” the Baron says. Of course, in keeping with the tradition of his sort, he covers his apprehension with a false smile and the false air of confidence pretending that the whole thing was all his idea. “It’d get that unruly little brat out of my hands.” 

Geralt smirks, putting up a façade of his own. “See, I knew we’d come to an understanding. I take the brat and you keep the coin.” Better to let the Baron think that he was a man with the same warped moral code as himself, than come in playing the part of a foolish White Knight. He continues speaking, even though the words taste sour on his lips, “You save yourself a lot of trouble, and I turn a profit from some... businessman in Novigrad.” 

Geralt can see quite plainly that Stephic will accept the offer, he casually traces the sign of Axii in front of him, watching Stephic’s eyes glass over as he speaks again, “It’s a great deal for both of us, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Stephic nods vacantly, “A profitable deal for both of us.” 

“Indeed,” the Witcher says, holding back a smirk. “And perhaps, even a hundred Crowns for my trouble?” 

Stephic nods emphatically, still under the influence of the sign, “Of course, Master Witcher.” 

Geralt watches as the man clumsily pulls a leather pouch from a pocket in his doublet. It is small, certainly not the entire reward, but Geralt takes it with a thankful smile and conspiratorial nod towards the slimy little bug-eyed noble. He could have easily asked for the whole four hundred crowns, but then the Baron might talk – say he was “hexed” and extorted by the greedy monster-slayer. He didn’t need any more of those rumors floating about. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Geralt’s lips twitch into a smirk as he takes the purse and steps past the Baron and out of the room. 

***

“Drink this, it’ll help with the pain,” Geralt says as he pulls a clear vial from somewhere in his pocket. You eye it suspiciously for a moment, not thrilled with the idea of swallowing the mystery liquid, but ultimately grab the vial and toss the bitter liquid to the back of your throat and swallow before you can gag. The unpleasant burning in your throat is a small price to pay for some relief to the deep ache in your healing back. 

You can hardly believe that it’s been nearly two weeks since you and Geralt had lifted the curse holding your mother to the place she’d been murdered and banished the wraith forever. Though, you suppose the fact that you’d only snapped from the seemingly endless fever dream a few days before is a huge contributing factor. 

You sit behind Geralt on his mare, Roach. You must admit, you are quite fond of the horse, even if getting on and off the horse was nearly impossible thanks to the pain in your back. Thankfully, the potion works quickly. It settles over you like a warm blanket, numbing the pain in your back and pulling you toward sleep. This is how you’ve spent most of the journey – asleep against Geralt’s back. You wish you could be awake more often to take in the beautiful sights instead of watching them blur by in a half-awake stupor. 

“ _Hm?_ ” Geralt mumbles, turning his head back slightly to look at you. You must have let one too many frustrated sigh escape your lips. 

“I just....” you begin sleepily, “I want to see everything.” 

Geralt grins, yellow eyes catching yours for a moment and making your breath stop. 

“You will,” he promises. He’s already turned back to the path in front of you, but those golden eyes still have you stuck, eyes fixed on the outline of his face as you breathe in the comforting scent of his long hair. 

“I will show you this whole Continent, if that is what you wish, Y/N.” 

You smile lightly as you let your eyes slip shut, arms wrapped tightly around him, letting the slow and steady sound of his heart beating lull you to sleep. But you swear that his heart is beating ever so slightly more quickly than it usually does. 

If you’d been able to see his face, you would have seen a soft smile on his usually stone hard face. 


	5. En'ca Minne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and the Cursebreaker, destined to become a Witcheress, spend some time alone at Kaer Morhen, until reality interrupts.

> If you enjoy my work and want to see more, you can check out [**_my tumblr_**](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/), where I post all of my work. I also have a [_**personal tumblr**_](https://katwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/) where I post original writing and other things. Thanks, as always, for reading my work. It means the world.

Geralt’s lips against yours, warmth radiating from his strong, firm body. His scent, comforting and alluring. Your brain bad short-circuited; those are the only things you can focus on. The kiss is soft and gentle but full of need all at once—a mess of contradictions, like the Witcher with the stone face but the heart of gold, like the girl who’d been naught more than a slave only a month ago, timid and terrified but able to battle a noonwraith and come out of it alive.

It is all lips and tongues and teeth as the two of you seemingly attempt to drink each other in, as if you can somehow fuse yourselves into one. The pad of his thumb brushes over your cheek, wiping away the tears of rage that had started to cool and dry there.

Your hand clutched wildly at the open collar of his shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin—to feel the slow, steady heartbeat. One of his tangled in your hair, holding you with pressure that was firm but not forceful.

Neither of you had the capacity to think about anything else—certainly not about Lambert and Eskel in the next room, who had let worry blind them enough that they didn’t wait and listen; didn’t use those Witcher senses as they should have. Then again, neither you nor Geralt, with Witcher’s hearing of his own, registered the hurried steps coming from the room over. Neither of you heard them calling your names as they rushed down the hallway.

“Geralt, what’s going—“ Eskel stopped, holding up his hand towards Lambert, who’d been slower to follow, though he made it to the open doorway, anyway.

“ _Oh_ ,” Lambert said quite loudly, stopped in the middle of the doorway.

The two of you, who hadn’t even managed it to get up off the floor, zapped apart as if lighting had struck, both breathing heavy.

Your face burns with embarrassment—from what you’d overheard, it didn’t seem like they liked you very much, and now _this_. You’d very much like to disappear into the wall. But neither says anything for a moment, until the older looking one simply shoots Geralt a knowing look and says, “Sorry, Wolf.”

He pulls the door shut behind himself and the younger one, leaving you and Geralt alone. Face still burning, you pull your knees up against your chest, burying your head. “ _Gods,_ I- I’m sorry.”

Geralt, on the other hand, just laughs, once again closing the distance between the two of you. “Sorry for _what?_ ” You can hear his smile as he scoots closer to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

You can’t quite manage to lift your head to look at him, so you speak into your knees, “Causing a _scene_.”

Geralt chuckles, fingers brushing through your hair, “A kiss isn’t quite a scene, Y/N.”

You sigh heavily, finally lifting your head from the cocoon you’d made yourself. Your face is still burning hot, flushed with embarrassment, but also with excitement. Despite the embarrassment, you would very much like for things to continue. You feel an unfamiliar flutter in your belly—a tingle in your whole body that you’d never felt before. When Stephic had thrown you at men, you’d never felt like this. You’d never felt anything. You’d blocked it all out, pretended like it wasn’t happening at all.

But with Geralt… You look at him and you just want to touch every inch of him, for him to touch every inch of you. The two of you lock eyes, and that feeling increases tenfold.

“You are beautiful when you blush,” the Witcher purrs, moving to stand up and wrapping his arms around you—still careful not to touch the fading marks across your back—and pulls you up with him. Of course, his words only make your heart rate faster; make your cheeks feel even hotter. Though, it seems he likes that reaction, because he hooks the fingers of one hand under your chin, tilting your head up so he can look straight into your eyes.

For a moment, he simply holds your gaze. His eyes are soft, warm, comforting—he looked at you the way you’d always dreamed a man would look at you, in a way that you thought was just a fantasy. Something that would never happen—not for someone like you.

Then, he leans in closer, leaving only the slightest bit of space between your lips and his. You lips tremble slightly, tears threatening to slip from your eyes. They aren’t sad tears, of course. Despite the poison making its way through your veins this very moment, nothing matters except the Witcher before you. You expect him to crash his lips to yours, but he does something quite different. He offers you a small smile before placing a kiss to each side of your face, just where the tears have escaped from your eyes despite the desperate attempts to hide them.

He kisses each one, lips soft and gentle, before pulling back slightly, his look turning more serious, but remaining warm as ever. “You are allowed to cry, you know,” he says, “You’ve been through so much… So much I wish I could have protected you from.”

At that, something snaps within you and tears start to flow, no chance of blinking them back. But you shake your head, laughing slightly. “Oh, Witcher,” you say, “I’m not crying because I am upset. I’m crying because… I… I never thought that I would have… _this.”_

Geralt moves his hands to cup each side of your face, the pad of each thumb brushing away tears. He leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head and you smile, leaning into him, leaning into his touch. This time, when he tilts your head up to look at him, your eyes meet his for a moment before they shift to his full lips. He smiles that little smirk of a smile you’ve come to love so much and leans in, bringing his lips gently to yours.

He holds you like you are delicate, something that might break if he squeezes too tight, and his lips move against yours in much the same manner. When he parts your lips with his tongue, he does it softly, first tracing your lower lip with the tip of his tongue, making you sigh and melt into him and taking advantage of your parted lips to gently explore your mouth.

Your hands rest on his chest, one directly over his heart. You press your palm against him, letting your fingers gently explore, enjoying the slow, steady beat of his heart. You smile into the kiss and Geralt pulls away for just a moment, looking down at you for a moment, “What is it?”

“Your heart,” you say with a sweep of her thumb, “It beats so slowly. Steadily.”

When Geralt reaches out a hand and places it over your heart, you gasp softly. The warmth of his hand over your heart has your heart beating wildly. “And yours is beating fast as a rabbit’s.”

You can’t quite suppress the giggle as Geralt leans over to kiss you quickly, “Do I make you so nervous?”

Your blush gives you away, so Geralt doesn’t wait long enough for you to answer before he brings his lips to your neck. You head seems to tilt back of its own accord as a soft moan escapes your lips. At the sound, Geralt hums appreciatively as his lips and tongue move over you neck, coaxing more of the sounds from your lips.

Your hands tangle in his hair is as his arms wrap around you, lifting you up into the air and carrying you over to the large bed you’d not yet had a chance to lay in. You get the impression that if your back were not still injured, he would toss you down onto the soft bed. Instead, he gently bends at the waist, placing you on the bed.

You blink up at him, enjoying the view, enjoying his gentle weight on you as he rests most of it on his forearms. Your breathing is heavy, contrasting with his even, measured breaths. But you could see from the fire in his amber eyes that he was feeling everything you were—his Witcher senses were just better at hiding it.

One of his hands moving to unlace your top hand you breathing even harder as he pressed his lips to yours once more. Now, I it feels like you cannot breathe at all, but you don’t care. You don’t need air, you just need _him_.

When he manages to unlace the soft material of your nightdress, his lips trail back down, first your jaw, then your neck and lower, to your collarbone, and then to the bare skin of your chest as he pushes the material out of his way. You let out a heavy sigh that turns into a moan as his lips and tongue trace your skin, moving ever closer to your nipple. When he gently pulls it into his mouth, flicking the hardened nub, you barely even register the moan that escapes your lips. Your brain is focused only on Geralt, and on his mouth.

He laughs, a low rumbling sound, and flicks his eyes up to meet yours, “You make the _loveliest_ sounds when my mouth is on you.” His voice is low and husky in a way you’d never heard it before.

“It’s just, I—” you gasp out as he turns his attention to your other breast, letting his finger trace soft circles around the one he’d just lavished with attention, “It’s never felt good, never felt like _this._ ”

For a moment, his eyes seem to lose focus, clouded with anger—at Stephic, at men he didn’t know, had never met—at anyone who’d hurt you. Your chest tightens, another wave of emotion crashing over you. He cared for you. He wasn’t just here to take what he wanted and leave. The only thing he wanted from you was you.

Everything else was _nothing_.

The cloud seemed to dissipate, his eyes flicking up to yours once more, clear as ever. You gave him a ghost of a smile, and he responded in that husky voice, “I promise you that with me, it will _always_ feel like this.”

Your hands have nothing to do but tangle in his silver hair as his mouth returns to your chest, kissing and teasing until you were writhing beneath him, attempting to move your hips up to meet his, desperate for any contact. Thankfully, he took the message and pulled back slightly so that he could slip one hand up under your nightdress, calloused fingers moving up from your ankle to your calf, then the soft skin of your thigh. You gasped as he let his fingers gently brush up against your underthings, which were absolutely soaked.

You didn’t have time to be embarrassed, _couldn’t_ be embarrassed thanks to the low growl that came from somewhere deep in his chest. He teased you a bit more, letting his fingers trace from your entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves at your center. Despite the fact that his fingers were still separated from you by the scrap of thin material, you mewled, urging him on; needing to feel more of him.

As if he were reading your mind, he hooks his fingers in the soaked material and pulls them off, tossing them somewhere on the floor behind him. “Gods,” he breathed, letting a finger circle your most sensitive spot so gently it was maddening, “Look at you, _en’ca minne_ ,” he adds another finger, moving them back and forth across the sensitive nub, “You’re so beautiful.”

Your brain is clouded with pleasure and trying to decipher what he just said is nearly impossible given that fact and your limited knowledge of the language the Elder Speech. Whatever it means, he says it with so much _care_ that you don’t really care what it means one way or the other.

He traces his fingers slowly to your entrance, circling around it several times, but not pushing in despite your protesting.

_“Geralt_ ,” you breathe, “Please—”

But then there is a sound on the other side of the door, several loud knocks in quick succession.

Your heart jumps up into your throat as Geralt withdraws his hand, turning to stand, irritation written all over his face.

“Dammit, Lambert, Eskel, can’t you _leave it alone_ for a—”

“Geralt, that is no way to talk to your elder.”

Geralt’s mouth snaps shut as he glances at the door, and then at you. You’ve already started lacking up your night dress again, though you still have no idea where your underwear went—which is entirely mortifying. Thankfully, he waits for you to grab another pair from your still open dresser that you’d only half unpacked your things into and pull them on with shaky hands.

Once you’ve managed to dress yourself and somewhat fix your mussed hair, Geralt finally goes to the door and opens it. Vizimir looks at Geralt apologetically, “Sorry to intrude.” He says it so nonchalantly that you get the impression that his probably happened dozens of time times. You do remember Geralt telling you that Vizimir was very old, and that he’d been in charge of Kaer Morhen for a very long time. You suppose his nonchalance eases your embarrassment somewhat—but only somewhat.

You knit your fingers together anxiously, looking between the two men. You know that mind reading is not something Witchers can do, but you can’t help but feel as if the two are exchanging information silently while you just shift nervously from one foot to the other, completely in the dark.

“You must have come up here for something important,” you let the words slip from your mouth. Truly, since being away from your old home, you’d become more and more able to speak up for yourself—to voice your concerns without the fear of being punished for it. You like to think that your mother would be happy to see the return of her loud, opinionated daughter, who had been missing for so long.

“I did,” Visimir says, taking a few steps into the room. Once he makes it past Geralt, you see a vial of something in his hand. It is full of a strange liquid you’ve never seen before—it was a bright yellow color, like the color of Geralt’s eyes in the sun. Your eyes narrow, focusing on the bottle. You cannot guess what it is, exactly, but you can guess why he’s brought it up here.

Geralt’s eyes have also focused on the vial, recognition blooming on his face in the form of a sharp grimace. “Visimir…” he trails off as Visimir gives him a sharp look, though his eyes look unbelievably sad.

You back up slowly, unthinkingly, until the backs of your legs hit the bed and you sit down with a heavy sigh. Of course, since you’d arrived here, you knew what was going to happen. You know what choice you’ve made, and you don’t plan on changing your mind—but it still makes your heart hammer in your chest.

“Visimir,” Geralt tries again, “We’ve only just arrived. Can she not have one night of peace?” There is an edge to the silver haired Witcher’s voice that you have rarely heard. It was fear lacing his words.

“I wish that I could,” Visimir says gently, taking a few more steps into the room, toward you. “But, Geralt, you know the mutations will only work if she’s taken the proper mutigens. Without the mutigens—”

“It would be suicide,” you cut off the old man. Even you, with your limited knowledge, know that. Trying to mutate someone’s DNA is risky, nearly impossible.

“Yes,” Visimir confirms.

“But certainly, it can wait until tomorrow—”

“No, Geralt.” It is you who cuts off the Witcher this time. You draw in a shaky breath, “I can… I can _feel_ the venom,” you admit. There was an ache in your back, which thankfully was dull at the moment, but you know that it will only get worse.

Visimir nods, eyes locking on yours, “We are going to have to begin as soon as possible, before the damage becomes irreparable.”

Geralt sighs, running a hand through his loose hair and pacing toward the bed, “ _Fuck_.”

You hold out your hand, reaching for the vial, which Visimir hands you. Despite his words, he handed it over slightly reluctantly, clearly not relishing the idea of you drinking it. But you’ve already made up your mind, and immediately uncork the small bottle.

“Wait, Y/N,” Geralt holds out a hand as if to take it from you, “Before you drink it, you have to know what—”

“ _Please_ , Geralt, do not tell me about the fucking side effects.” You don’t want to hear about them, you don’t want to know what is about to happen. You just know that you need to survive this; you need to be with Geralt. You _need_ your life to continue.

So you put the bottle to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing the mixture in one go, gagging slightly on the taste.

For a moment, you feel nothing aside from an alcohol burn down your throat, but then you feel something else—a blooming pain radiating from your chest. You gasp, pressing your hands to your chest, as if you could somehow tear yourself open and get the mixture out, dropping the vial in the process.

“You’ll keep watch, I’m sure?” Visimir asks Geralt, who nods gravely as he rushes to your side, sitting down next to you on the bed.

You watch Visimir leave, first stopping in the doorway to tell Geralt that he’d be in the lab if he was needed. And then, he is gone.

You are gulping for air, even though each breath burns like fire. The only comfort is Geralt beside you, pulling you against him and easing you into bed. You look up at him with wide eyes, shaking your head vehemently, “Geralt… I won’t be able to fucking _sleep!”_ The words come out choppily, through gasps of air.

Geralt’s face screws into a more serious, grave expression than you’d ever seen, and he looks down at you. “Y/N,” he mutters, “I would never normally use it on you, but… you know about _axii_?”

You nod, vaguely remembering the Witcher sign that could control minds. Honestly, you don’t care what he does so long as you can sleep—so that you can escape this pain. “Just… make it _stop,”_ you plead.

“I will, _en’ca minne_ ,” he whispers, one hand stroking your hair and the other gripping your hand tightly.

He removes his hand from your forehead, tracing a sign above you and whispering under his breath, “Sleep, my love.”

And suddenly, despite the pain, you feel every part of your body relax, your breaths becoming more even as your eyes slip shut.

_Oh yes,_ you think, _I’m very tired. So, so tired._

You fall asleep clutching Geralt’s hand, and he stays awake all night. He knows you are strong, and you will fight, but he will not let you go through this alone. He will not let anything happen to you.


	6. Freedom and Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You learn the real reason that Geralt has brought you to Kaer Morhen, facing you with questions about destiny, freedom, and your very life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**A/N:** First - I apologize for disappearing for a good three months. But rest assured, I have no intention of abandoning any of these stories. I have so many ideas floating around my head - now I just have to get them onto the page. _
> 
> __
> 
> _So, I actually wrote this a couple of months ago and realized I forgot to post it here while I was re-reading so I could make sure my next chapter follows the story I was going for. Good news all around! I hope you all enjoy!_

**This story, and all of my other stories, are posted on[my tumblr](https://aenwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/). I also have a [personal tumblr](https://katwoedbeannaa.tumblr.com/), where I post original writing and other fun things. Thank you all so much for reading, I can’t tell you how much it means to me. **

* * *

You wake slowly, feeling like you’ve got a head stuffed with cotton. At first, your eyes don’t listen when you tell them to open—or rather, they protest strongly against it. You are, it seems, only able to blink them open for a few seconds before they flutter shut again, as if weighted down by lead.

On top of that, you feel different. Changed, somehow. Though, you can’t seem to put your finger on exactly what about you feels off. Aside from an overwhelming exhaustion, you don’t feel any pain. You stretch your fingers first, then your toes, as if to test that theory, but you’d been right. You are able to stretch your whole body without any pain, aside from the dull ache in your back, which you knew would not be going away until your body was mutated—changed enough to dispel the venom.

Sensing you stirring in your sleep, Geralt brushes his fingers across your face. You blink up at him, finding him staring down at you with tired eyes.

“You look like hell,” you inform him with a little grin, wanting to put him at ease. His face is still lined with worry, and it looks as if he hasn’t slept at all.

“How kind,” he responds, though his smile does not quite reach his eyes.

You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows, “Did you sleep at all?”

“No.”

“Geralt!” You pout, even though the idea that he’d stayed awake all night watching over you was more than enough to melt your heart. Still, you didn’t need him worrying himself sick over you. You could handle it… You’d have to.

“Those potions can be deadly, Y/N,” he reminds you quite needlessly. As if you’d forgotten about that.

“Well, I’m alive,” you point out. Yes, you were alive, and you planned on keeping it that way. Everything about the mutagen you’d taken was unpleasant, from its horrid taste to the way that it burned down your throat and then out from your chest until your whole body felt like it was on fire. But, it was your only option, the only way you’d get to stay alive, and stay with Geralt. You’d drink a hundred more, a thousand more if you had to. No price was too great.

“And thank the gods for that,” Geralt says as he shifts so he can press a kiss to your lips, one hand gently cradling the side of your face. You sigh into the kiss, mouth opening for Geralt to explore, which he does eagerly.

Your body is already buzzing, somehow still pent up with need despite the effects of the mutagen you’d taken the night before. You push yourself against him, letting a hand slide down his sculpted chest, wanting to memorize every inch of him. You could get used to waking up this way.

You’ve only just begun sliding your hand up under his shirt to lift it over his head when he pulls back from the kiss and moves one hand, gripping your wrist to still your own. You sigh and blink up at him—you’re alone, no chance of anyone bothering you—why stop now? But, as if he can hear the thoughts in your head, she gives a slight shake of his own. No.

You pout, resigned. He just sighs and smiles down at you, the spark in his eyes telling you that he’d prefer not to stop either, but—

“You’ve got to eat something. We’ll go down to the kitchen.”

Your stomach turns at the idea of eating anything, especially when the last thing you’d consumed had made you feel like death itself, and you begin to protest, “I’m not hungry, Geralt.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, releasing your wrist and pushing himself up, swinging two large legs over the side of the bed. “You need to eat, or the mutagens won’t work.”

Of course, from the way that he says “won’t work,” you gather that he actually means “will be far more likely to kill you.” You groan and push yourself up, following suit and swinging your legs over the side of the bed, standing up carefully, more slowly that usual. You don’t want to risk blood rushing to your head and sending you into a heap on the floor—you don’t need him any more worried than he clearly already is.

Gingerly, you reach your arms up over your head and stretch, surprised at the lack of any discernible discomfort. If anything, you feel more flexible, stronger. Yes, the mutagen is definitely changing something, though you can’t exactly tell what. You resist the urge to pelt Geralt with questions about the strange liquid and what exactly it is doing to the cells in your body. It had certainly felt as if it were ripping them clean apart; but you know there must be more to it than that. Perhaps, as quickly as it had seemed to rip them apart and scramble them, it was putting them back together—now changed, maybe better somehow. That was the point, after all, wasn’t it?

Once you are confident in your ability to walk without making a complete fool of yourself, you walk over the the wardrobe. Inside, you find a few of your own clothes—most of which were rather dirty after all those days of traveling—and some new ones that must have been scrounged up from around Kaer Morhen. As you grab a pair of breeches and a tunic, your mind wanders.

When was the last time there were new Witchers being taught here? How many had there been? Were these close from some of them? Young men who spent their days training for a job that would most certainly kill them in the end would explain how they happened to have clothing that was relatively the right size.

Once you’ve dressed, you turn around to face Geralt, attempting a nonchalant smile despite the fact that your nerves are fraying. You know you want to do this—you just with there was some certainty in it. The only thing that seems relatively certain to happen, regardless of the choice you make, is that you may die. But you can’t bear to think about the unfairness of all that just now, so you do what you always have and push the thoughts down, down beneath every other thought you can conjure up.

“Ready?” Geralt asks.

You nod firmly and follow him to the door.

* * *

“How do I feel?” You repeat the old Witcher’s question back to him as if you hadn’t heard it the first time. “I… I mean, I guess I just feel… different.”

They’d given you a second potion after breakfast, which had seemed like a horrible idea. It took all of your self-control not to gag and empty the contents of your stomach back onto the large wooden table. However, after a few anxious minutes passed, the burning sensation down the back of your throat faded away, leaving no pain in its wake.

It did, however, leave you with your muscles tingling—aching for movement. But, despite the increased energy, you felt the strange sensation of a slowed pulse. At first, it only reminded you of the slowed pulse of the fever you’d had as a child. Some kind of bacteria or virus, you don’t remember what the healers had called it. You only remember the dazed feeling and the terrifying realization that your heartbeat was slowing down; much too slow to sustain human life. But, you’d survived that. And now, you supposed, the slowed heart rate was simply part of you—if you lived, that is.

“Explain what you mean by different,” Visimir pulls you from your thoughts.

You glance up at him, fingers drumming on the table, “I feel like I could run a mile, or… I don’t know, climb the gods-damned walls or something.” It is the only explanation you can think of that makes any sense. “And my heart,” you quickly add, “It’s beating slowly.”

“Hmm,” the gray-haired man says, cocking his head to the side and allowing a small smile to appear for the first time, “It seems you’ve brought me the perfect candidate for a Witcheress, Geralt.”

Geralt smiles, but it is strained, as if he’s got less faith than the old man. You decide that, at least in this particular instance, you’d side with the one who’d been overseeing training and mutations for longer than anyone you know has been alive.

“You know there’s no such thing as a perfect candidate,” Geralt says, somewhat bitterly.

“That’s right enough,” Visimir mused. His eyes looked distant; lost in thought. But, unlike Geralt’s gaze, which seemed to be filled more with guilt and fear than anything else, the older Witcher’s eyes were just that—thoughtful. He was thinking things though, of course, but he was not writing this all off as a hopeless situation, which was more than you could say for most of them.

Once again, you feel your temper beginning to flare, the way everyone seems to talk about you as if you aren’t right there in the room with them.

Hearing the exaggerated huff of air you let out, Visimir turns his attention back to you, “We discovered… relatively recently, that there are certain people whose genetic makeup makes them better suited to undergoing the mutations than others,” he explains. “People like Geralt and, apparently, you.”

That last sentence knocks the breath out of you and you turn to look at Geralt, questioning. He hadn’t told you about that particular detail. Though, you suppose, it wasn’t really necessary information.

“Me?” you question, turning back to Visimir after failing to obtain the answer you wanted out of Geralt.

“Humans do not usually respond to mutagens the way that you did,” he explains, “You drank it last evening, yet here you are, walking around on your own the next morning.”

“How long does it usually take?”

“Assuming they live, a few days.”

The matter of fact way in which he says it would ordinarily be off-putting, but after learning about the poisoned blood in your veins, you were quickly recovering from any shock due to imminent danger. It just… Did not seem like something that was taken overly seriously here at Kaer Morhen. Which, you assume, is better than the alternative.

“Don’t fill her head with crazy ideas just because she lived, Visimir.” The hint of venom in Geralt’s voice knocks you off-balance slightly. You felt like you were going to get whiplash listening to the two of them going back and forth. You hardly had time to digest this new information from Visimir before Geralt seemed to quash any glimmer of hope it gave you.

“You know I don’t bother with crazy ideas, Gerlt,” Visimir says in the same calm way he seems to say just about everything.

“She helped kill a Noonwraith, and she drank a mutagen and didn’t die,” Geralt says, and you feel your stomach turn over on itself in disgust at his tone of voice, “And you actually think that makes her a Witcher?”

Your hands curl into fists, nails biting at the skin of your palms. You want to scream, but you manage to keep your voice calm, almost deathly so, as you look at him, “Wasn’t that the whole point of bringing me here?”

“I brought you here to save your life, not end it.” You can see concern in his eyes, but it hardly matters now—all you can hear is the tone he’d just used, the one that made it seem as if he regretted everything. The one that made it clear that he did not think you’d be capable of becoming a Witcher.

Fuck. You are angry with yourself for believing that he was different—for believing that he actually believed that you were something more than a weak country girl who needed saving and couldn’t possibly be anything beyond that.

Perhaps you had been too trusting of him—maybe he had only taken you away from Stephen and that shit town so that he could make you his own. You had let your guard down, and you had been taken for a fool. You’d promised yourself that you’d never let that happen, but it’d been too easy to fall for it. You’d wanted to fall for it.

Of course, you also recognized that it could quite well be that he was worried—that he had no faith that you’d actually be able to survive. Though, that didn’t make it hurt any less. You had thought that if anyone believed in you, it would have been him.

You hardly register what is being said around you as you wrack your brain for memories of the last weeks, trying to pick out moments where he might have given away this clearly obvious fact. You felt far away, disconnected from the voices of Geralt and Visimir sitting with you.

Still, you manage to pull yourself out of your thoughts to speak again.

“You didn’t have to bring me here,” you finally speak. You are surprised by how calm you still sound—surprised, and almost terrified. You sound far too measured, far too calculated. It has been so long since you’ve spoken like this that you managed to forget what it even felt like. “If you were so convinced that I was dead, you could’ve just left me back there.”

“Y/N,” he cuts in, eyes wide, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“It was pretty obvious what you meant,” you say through your teeth.

“That I don’t want you to die?” He asks, frustration in his voice.

“That you think me doing anything worthwhile is impossible,” you hiss.

Visimir, who had fallen silent, clears his throat before speaking, “This isn’t the time.”

Both of you snap your heads in Visimi’s direction, but several moments of silence pass before either of you manage to say anything.

“I’m doing it,” you assert before Geralt has time to say anything. Though, you suppose, it isn’t exactly something that he can argue against anyway. Regardless of his beliefs, this is the only way that you won’t die. Still, you feel the need to make sure that you get your point across first.

This is your choice—your decision—and it has nothing to do with him.

Geralt remains silent as you reach out a hand to take the small vial that Visimir has produced from one of the many pockets of his old, faded Witcher’s armor.

He is silent as you pop the cork from the small glass tube and drink it, tossing your head back and swallowing quickly.

He is silent as you stand up, suddenly with the same feline grace you’ve noticed in him, and leave the table.

Your first thought is to head back to your room—you vaguely remember the stone hallways and corridors that he’d led you through earlier this morning—but you decide against it. You feel a strange pulsing in your veins, a strange urge to run and run until your body gives out. So, you head from the hall and through the large doors, down the steps, and then push open the heavy wooden door that leads outside into the courtyard—into a land full of grass and trees, sheltered by the nearby mountains.

You take a few deep, calming breaths, and then you run.

You run straight for the trees, your body somehow knowing where to step and where to avoid. Branches crack beneath your feet, but you manage to avoid any of the low hanging branches that ordinarily would have scraped your face and arms. There is something beautifully natural about this—a strange feeling that this was what you were meant to be all along. Perhaps destiny was real; perhaps it was kinder to some than to others. Perhaps you were one of the lucky few.

And, despite the anger and sadness and guilt surrounding the fight you’d had with Geralt, you smile as your legs propel you forward along a trail you hadn’t even known existed. For the first time in your life, you feel free.


End file.
